VII.

This Hermit good lives in that wood

Which slopes down to the Sea.

How loudly his sweet voice he rears!

He loves to talk with Marineres

That come from a far Contree.

He kneels at morn and noon and eve--

He hath a cushion plump:

It is the moss, that wholly hides

The rotted old Oak-stump.

The Skiff-boat nerd: I heard them talk,

"Why, this is strange, I trow!

"Where are those lights so many and fair

"That signal made but now?

"Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit said--

"And they answerd not our cheer.

"The planks look warpd, and see those sails

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